


Love In All Its Splendor, Love In All Its Glory, or An Approximation Thereof

by DixieDale



Category: Girl From Uncle, The Man from UNCLE
Genre: valentines day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 16:29:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Missions conflict with Valentines Day plans, and the results are mixed, to say the least.  Well, no one ever said working for UNCLE New York would be easy.





	1. 'How Do I Love Thee?'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 14th - Surely poetry was appropriate to the day, and Napoleon had to admit Illya's selection was pleasing. His own was a little less cultured, but somehow the company seemed to cast a slight damper on the mood. Well, leeches will do that.

Neither Napoleon Solo or Illya Kuryakin had made any real plans for February 14th. Well, they were rarely able to make real plans for ANY particular date, considering their jobs as the top two enforcement agents for UNCLE New York. The women at the organization had never quite given up hopes, however, of one of them calling and asking her to spend Valentine's Day evening with him. They may receive flowers or candy, but they'd always known odds were against Napoleon, even Illya, actually showing up - their jobs were just too likely to send them half-way around the world at a moment's notice, and Mr. Waverly was unlikely to postpone an assignment just because of a date. Many a time an eager lovely had waited - and waited - and waited, and finally slipped out of her finery with a disappointed sigh, to pop a frozen dinner into the oven and open a bottle of wine they would NOT be sharing with anyone.

Of course, more recently, there were other reasons why the two men didn't make any plans, or at least show up, with the lovelies from the steno pool or elsewhere, but no one needed to know that they increasingly found each other's company more intriguing, more exciting, than what the ladies from UNCLE could offer. As often as they worked together, partners on most, though not all of their assignments, they found the opportunity to celebrate a little on their own. Perhaps not on the proper appointed date, but an UNCLE agent had to be, among other things, flexible and able to grasp the moment at its fullest potential.

They'd been apart since the beginning of January, Napoleon in various parts of South America, Illya in Nepal, each on separate missions. They'd survived, even been relatively successful, made a final check-in and were directed to bypass New York, but to meet in New Orleans and then to proceed to a small town (VERY small town) about a hundred miles northeast of New Orleans. 

"We suspect a Thrush presence there. Confirm that suspicion or prove it false, and in a timely manner, if you please. Do try and be inconspicuous, gentlemen," had been the long-suffering, if perhaps overly brief, instructions from Alexander Waverly. Just how he thought the debonair Napoleon Solo and his partner, the striking blond with a foreign accent, were supposed to do that in a Louisiana bayou town with a population numbering 97, he never explained. Well, he couldn't be expected to take care of ALL the details for them, after all! He had other things to deal with.

Napoleon had managed a wry "yes, of course, sir," before his boss disconnected. "Did you hear that, Illya? We are to try and be inconspicuous."

Illya Kuryakin looked at him impassively, kindly refrained from translating his thoughts to English and verbalizing them, then continued his search of the map spread out on the car rental agency's counter. "I am not sure there IS such a place as Greyson's Levee, Napoleon. It is not listed in the table."

"Well, we'll just have to go in that direction, get to the outskirts of New Orleans and see if we can narrow it somewhat."

"Yes, we can always rent a car and drive northeast about a hundred miles and start asking people, "excuse me, do you know of a Thrush outpost in the vicinity?" I am sure that will work quite well." Illya's lack of enthusiasm for this venture was quite noticeable. Even Napoleon's introducing him to the joys of a shrimp po'boy sandwich failed to improve his mood, especially since it was delivered with both ketchup and mayonaise. 

"Surely this is not how it is meant to be served, Napoleon," Illya frowned after his first bite.

"Well, no, you have to ask for it special, but it really adds something, you know," Solo said cheerfully, as Illya tossed the whole disgusting mess into the trash. Funny, Illya's expression pretty much mirrored the expression of the man behind the counter when Napoleon had made the order in the first place. That expression improved greatly, on both men, when Illya walked up and ordered one the way it was supposed to be served. Napoleon just sat back shaking his head at that lack of an adventuresome spirit.

In the end they'd had to do pretty much that very thing. Oh, not the eating of bastardized shrimp po'boys, or asking around for a Thrush outpost, of course, but the driving northeast, watching the mileage gauge, and asking anyone they spotted for directions to Greyson's Levee. It took quite a bit of asking, before one person finally nodded slowly, spit to the side and jerked his thumb off to the right toward a side road that really wasn't much more than two parallel mud ruts between dark and ominous overhanging trees. Sure enough, about a hundred yards in they found a faded sign, 'Greyson's Levee'. Another twenty yards in, another sign told them, 'If you aint from here, you just turn around and git'. The next one, spaced a little closer, warned 'told you to git, didn't I?' The cartoon figure of a bearded man with a rifle pointed at them didn't offer any particular encouragement. 

"Do you think they're trying to tell us something?" Napoleon quipped, just before the first shot shattered their windshield. The next several shots confirmed his hypothesis, and the smoke from the fractured guts of the engine left no room for doubt. The two men from UNCLE took off into the swamp, bullets kicking up muddy water behind them.

Two days later, it was Valentine's Day, and Napoleon and Illya were together, but hardly in what most would call a romantic location. No, in a laurel filled swamp, complete with assorted wildlife, some of which seemingly wanted to return home with them.

As Illya was picking the leeches off Napoleon with the point of his heated knife, leaving a tiny drop of blood behind at every successful removal, he DID take the time to recite, "how do I love thee, let me count the ways", one solid 'ouch!' accompanying each phrase, each removal. 

Of course, Napoleon returned the favor, but with a slightly more flip, "he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not," getting a surly, "be careful with that knife, Napoleon, or I can guarantee it will be "he loves me not!"

It took awhile, but they did finally determine that, NO, Thrush did NOT have an outpost here. 

"And do you really blame them, Napoleon?" Illya commented glumly. 

So far they had dodged large snakes, swatted numerous varieties of stinging insects, barely spotted that alligator just in time to avoid being the main course of the large beast's dinner, and had just managed to sweet talk that 'nice old lady' that Napoleon spotted into giving them directions back to civilization. That eerie cackle the woman had sent after them sent chills up and down their spines, and the snuffling sounds in the undergrowth and those hacking coughing sounds in the overhanging trees hadn't helped much. 

Still, they HAD made it back to the main road, such as it was, and now they were hitchhiking toward New Orleans, hoping against hope some kind soul would pick up two bedraggled men looking like they'd been swallowed by a swamp monster and vomited back up again. 

They hadn't had any luck, but luckily HQ, once the two had finally been able to report in, had alerted the New Orleans branch of UNCLE and a small truck rolled along side with a cheery, "hey, big city boys! Our UNCLE said you ran into a mite of trouble. You'all want a lift??!" Not so surprisingly, the driver and the guy riding shotgun had suggested Napoleon and Illya ride in the back. 

The question Napoleon had shouted through the wind to the driver, "if you're from the local UNCLE office, why did they send us, anyway, and not you??" got an incredulous glance back in the side mirror. 

"Cause we aint crazy, city boy! We don't GO out in that swamp. If the gators don't get you, the snakes will, then there's that old witch with her pet panther! Nope, won't catch US traipsing out there!"

Somehow, there just didn't seem to be any good reply to that.

Leaning against the back of the cab, wearily looking at each other, Illya mused, "Napoleon, we missed our celebratory dinner, yet again."

"Well, don't worry, partner mine. We'll check with April and Mark when we get back; maybe the four of us can get reservations at Venara's."

That got him a rather disgruntled look, and Napoleon let a long, slow, rather predatory grin cross his face. Illya wondered if there might not be an alligator or two in Napoleon's family tree, from that smile.

"Oh, you mean OUR celebratory dinner. Well, I thought maybe Chinese takeout, my place. You bring the vodka."

"No, I'LL bring the Chinese takeout, AND the vodka, Napoleon. You keep forgetting the fortune cookies, and it would seem we could use a little expert intelligence reporting. Thrush outpost, indeed!!" Illya exclaimed with a snort, but just the faintest trace of a smile.


	2. 'This Can't Be Love'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission conflicts with Valentine's Day plans, and the results are less than happy. Mark is given the bird by the bird he'd invited to a romantic dinner, and in a very public and humiliating manner. April finds her suitor has taken the opposite approach and is now pestering her to death with flowers, chocolates, theatre and symphony tickets, invitations galore, and is rapidly turning into a stalker.
> 
> It will take the partners stepping in to resolve both issues, along with help from a couple of friends, and Venara's and a quiet dinner for two has never looked so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the lyrics to 'This Can't Be Love' - Rodgers and Hart

Venara's:

April Dancer and Mark Slate - They were partners, and good ones, as well as being friends, though nothing more. Well, they were both too professional to let it be anything more. The emotions involved in a partnership, even a friendship, were quite different than those involved in a romance, and for romance (or something perhaps better called by a little more honest name), they looked elsewhere. It was just a shame that 'elsewhere' seemed to provide nothing nearly as pleasing or as reliable as what their partner provided. 

This dinner at Venara's made that point most emphatically. They had both had plans for dinner on Valentine's Day, but Thrush (and Mr. Waverly) had cancelled those plans most effectively. Mark's date had not taken his absence very well, reacted most strongly, in fact in making her displeasure widely known. April's non-date had reacted just as strongly, but in a different manner. 

Now, seated across from each other, stealing bites from each other's appetizer plates and laughing together, it was amazing how much alike their thoughts were. {"If I could just find someone I like half as well as I like my partner, I'd be more than satisfied! Of course, with a certain physical spark, of course. We're just lucky that that piece IS missing from our relationship. That just wouldn't work out well at all, not with us being partners."}

 

Mark Slate:

Mark Slate was a competent agent, but there was a uncomfortable disconnect between him and his superior, Alexander Waverly. Mr. Waverly looked at his own history, the stages his own career had gone through, and saw very little in the very hip Mark Slate to compare favorably. Oh, the young man tried, and did a creditable job, of course. Still, there was just a lack of seriousness in his manner of speaking, his manner of dress, and much else, that his superior found deplorable. 

True, Alexander Waverly felt the same, to some extent anyway, about most of the agents under his command, including his top two ones, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, but somehow the young Mr. Slate seemed to get under his skin more than most of the others. There was a level of frivolity there he just could NOT like! 

Of course, he had to admit the young man did seem to avoid all the romantic entanglements Mr. Solo seemed to consider obligatory. At least that was something. For one thing, Mr. Slate didn't seem to cause the turmoil among the residents of the steno pool that Mr. Solo inevitably, and even Mr. Kuryakin occasionally, did. Perhaps that DID show some sign of maturity that the rest of his demeanor seemed to belie.

Whether it was maturity or common sense, Mark DID prefer to play the field, a rather wide field though he didn't make that common knowledge. In fact, he pretty much made it a rule - three dates at the most and then on to someone else. Well, it wasn't as if he could afford to get involved with any one person anyway, not while he was an agent for UNCLE, certainly not while he was still trying to prove himself. Ruefully he admitted to himself, {"I'll probably still be trying to prove myself when I'm retired at forty, IF I survive that long!"}. 

Some days he would have been content just to finish an assignment and NOT have to hear Alexander Waverly give that deep disappointed sign and explain just how far short Mark had fallen THIS time.

He was quite sure this last escapade would not prove that exception, not once Mr. Waverly returned to the office and read their reports. Not only had he totaled their rental car when Thrush tossed that smoke grenade in front of them, he'd come back to a most embarrassing scene in the Commissary. Mr. Waverly DID so dislike embarrassing scenes, especially on the premises!

Still, he wasn't sure what Sylvia Warman, Research Department, Level 2, had expected him to do. Should he have called her from the slums of Portugal to explain he'd been unfortunately delayed and would have to take a pass on the Valentine's Day dinner he'd invited her to?? His communicator was in pieces, he was trying to figure out where the Thrush henchmen had taken his partner, he hadn't a penny to his name, and he was supposed to be making personal phone calls?? Even if he HAD had his communicator, Mr. Waverly strongly frowned on the relaying of personal messages by that medium.

Yes, he'd known she would likely be upset, but you'd have thought she would have checked earlier that day with someone, maybe Lisa Rogers, to see if he'd even returned yet. But no, even though he'd been gone and out of contact for over a week prior, she'd gotten dressed up, and when he hadn't shown up at her apartment, she'd gone to the restaurant alone and sat there sulking, and laid the entire blame for her ruined evening on his "arrogant, top-lofty, inconsiderate ways!". Oh, he'd heard the story; well, he thought half the building, at least, had heard the story of his infamy, from the teasing he was getting from his fellow agents.

Then, he'd groaned as he watched her approach the table in the commissary where he'd gone to get some hot tea and wait for his partner. She'd looked like a thundercloud ready to let loose with one devil of a storm. 

The screaming he could have done without, his head still pounding and stomach still roiling from the mild concussion he'd received in rescuing April; the pot of hot tea Sylvia had dumped on his shirt front and in his lap he would have cheerfully foregone also. The only bright spot in the whole humiliating episode had been seeing April step up behind the screeching brunette, grab that widestretched hand that had been ready to slap him good and hard, and whisper something in her ear. No, Mark didn't know what his partner had said, but Sylvia had turned stark white, turned and stared into April's face, a face showing a rather odd combination of serenity and downright menace, and squealed like a stuck pig, and ran as if a thousand demons were chasing her. 

"Well, darling, how about we go have Medical check you out? And perhaps find some dry clothes? I must say, I'm not sure Sylvia is your type, Mark. She seems a bit, um, high-strung, if you know what I mean." 

He'd let April drag him to his feet, link her arm in his and together they'd left the wreckage and the gaping personnel behind them.

"Just what DID you say to her, April luv?"

And no matter HOW badly his head hurt, he just couldn't keep from the shout of laughter that followed her sly grin and whispered answer. 

Yes, this partner was one well worth keeping; he just hoped she continued to want to keep HIM around. Hopefully she wouldn't come to the same conclusion Mr. Waverly seemed to have come to, that he just didn't quite make the grade. 

He groaned as that thought led to another one, {"oh, no, Mr. Waverly. He is going to have more than a few words to say about THAT little scene."

 

April Dancer:

Edward Lowry was a financier, quite the darling of the New York social set. Tall, dark and handsome, quite charming, quite well-to-do, from a good family quite high up in the social stratosphere. He was a good conversationalist, if somewhat limited in his interests; was an excellent dancer and could sit through a symphony or the ballet without fidgeting. Also, he wasn't overly curious about her frequent disappearances, or her day to day activities, which was, of course, essential, what with her job as an agent for UNCLE New York. He didn't look at her mod style of dress in disapproval, but more in indulgent forebearance. He liked to take her places, liked to show her off, was highly attentive. 

From the glances she'd gotten from others when they were together, she probably was expected to have been delighted with his attentions. Really, her father was fairly well acquainted with the Lowry family, and HE had been thrilled with Edward's showing signs of interest in her. After all, he was just the sort her demanding parent considered ideal for a young woman of quality who just refused to settle into the expected mold; someone to settle her down, get her to take her rightful place in society, uphold her duty to her family, ie her father. 

In fact, her father had made that point quite clear during their last (highly uncomfortable) dinner together on his visit to New York in November. If she'd been in the habit of arguing with her father, she might have that night, hearing the praises heaped upon Edward's head, those contrasting sharply with her father's firmly stated opinion of her partner, Mark Slate. But she wasn't in the habit of arguing with her father, never had been, considering that restraint not to be so much filial duty, but merely a matter of good sense, even self-survival. Her father was a rather hard and unpleasant person at the best of times, and he did not appreciate being questioned or contradicted, especially by his daughter. She'd had experience with his disapproval, and would prefer to avoid it if possible.

She'd often thought that it was truly unfortunate that she simply couldn't warm up to Edward Lowry, but she just couldn't. Two dates in October, one in November, then she'd been away for much of December and January. She'd rather forgotten about him when he called her with an invitation to a rather posh affair. She'd had to decline; well, she probably could have washed her hair another night, but decided to prioritize. No, she hadn't explained her other plans; she wasn't ready to be that rude, that blunt. That was perhaps an error in judgement on her part.

He'd called again with another invitation. She'd been equally, no, even more reluctant to go out with him on Valentine's Day, though she'd turned down the invitation as gracefully as she could. She thought she'd made her refusal clear, if politely regretful. Well, one couldn't just be downright rude, after all. Then, in the scurry of getting things together for that last job, she'd forgotten all about him.

She'd been more than a little surprised when she returned from that mission in Portugal on the 16th to find her apartment awash in wilting flowers, several notes, boxes of chocolates. Somehow, that graceful "no, I'm afraid I have other plans," just hadn't sunk in. She'd not gone into any details in her refusal, of course, had not explained that her plans included an early dinner and a solitary glass of wine and some music on the player, IF she in fact got back to the city by that date in the first place. 

That last note from him, along with the reproachful admonishment of the building manager about her menfriends making a nuisance of themselves, made it clear that Edward indeed had NOT understood her 'No', or at least hadn't accepted it. 

It appears there had been deliveries all that afternoon, and he himself had shown up at 8:00 sharp, ready to escort her out. He had even demanded the manager unlock her apartment door since "perhaps something happened, perhaps she's ill; she certainly would never have stood me up!" Luckily the manager was too smart for that, though he had had his wife take a fast peek. It seems Edward wasn't too pleased that April HADN'T been laying on the floor in a faint, but was simply not there waiting for him.

Now, he just wouldn't disappear. He kept pushing for "a lovely intimate dinner. We have SO much to discuss and plan, my darling April. How do you feel about being a June bride? I'm sure mother could make all the arrangements, even if it is rather short notice," as one of the messages on her phone recorder informed her. 

The notes got increasingly terse, though alternating with wheedling and ingratiating ones. She was NOT looking forward to seeing him again; in fact, she was quite apprehensive. She had no hesitation about facing down a Thrush operative, but this New York social hawk worried her, more than a little. 

Not only was it worrisome, it was getting embarrassing. Somehow he'd gotten the address of the office, and Security was getting a little annoyed now about all the 'gifts' they were having to double check before they arrived in the office she and Mark shared. Flowers, plants, chocolates, even a piece or two of expensive jewelry. The ladies in the steno pool and the various other departments were getting the benefit of all of that, with the jewelry being returned with a semi-gracious note. The invitations he kept leaving, on her phone, in her mail box, pressing into her hand as he stepped into her path on the street, were getting more and more lavish, as if that would change her mind.

Then, she'd gotten that exceedingly crisp phone call from her father, letting her know just how much he disapproved of her 'frivolous and coy behavior with such a fine gentleman as Edward Lowry.' "I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't lose interest entirely, April." 

The phone call had gotten rather tense, her father not reacting well at all to her proclamation that "and the sooner he does, Father, the better! He has become more than an irritation, a nuisance or an embarrassment; he is becoming rather alarming. People are starting to talk about it at my job, and it is causing me to look less than professional. I am fast reaching a point where I will no longer be able to be in the least polite." 

Of course, that had led to her father expressing his opinion of her 'job', her 'partner', and a few other things, all of which she'd heard a number of times before. Once again she wondered how soon he would be able to track down her number if she changed it. With his many and sundry connections, it probably wouldn't take long. Still, there were times she found the idea of just disappearing highly attractive, just becoming someone else entirely. 

All of that lecturing and hectoring made Edward Lowry even more exasperating; she might have to deal with one overbearing, superior male in her personal life, and her professional life gave her an abundance of similiar types to interact with. Surely she didn't need yet one more!

The dozen white orchids, along with the brochures from the Prince George Ballroom and also The Plaza proved to be the last straw. Mark looked at her, appalled when she'd handed him the accompanying note, her being too furious to even speak. 

"He wants to you look at these and decide which you prefer for the wedding reception??! Has he gone totally mad, luv? This can't go on! If nothing else, the Old Man is going to have a few words about your name being flashed around town, which is bound to happen if it hasn't already! The society pages are already making hints about the 'Lowry heir and a certain auburn-haired beauty'.

Well, Mr. Waverly DID have a few words, more than a few actually. April was given carte blanche to 'deal with the problem, Miss Dancer. Discreetly, if you please, but quickly. We simply cannot have such nonsense going on; we are trying to operate a world wide agency here, you know. You can scarcely go about incognito if your name and face are being plastered all over the society pages!"

April's jaw was clenched rather tightly, but she managed a polite smile, along with her, "of course, Mr. Waverly. I'll see to it right away."

It was only later, back in her office, that she let loose. "And what am I supposed to do 'quickly and discreetly'? It's not like I'm dealing with one of the Thrush operatives. Someone's going to notice and probably get quite alarmed if I shoot him in some back alley, even if it's just with a sleep dart! Though that is a most tempting idea, I must say!"

It took some thought, and a little doing, and a little rehearsing of that little impersonation Mark had taught April early on in their partnership, but it worked. Well, at least the quick part. The discreet part? Well . . .

Edward Lowry and his mother were very aware of their social position, very conscious of their worth and the respect due them. A dinner at The Hermitage, with April dressed to the nines, proved the ideal opportunity. Oh, she wasn't with the Lowrys, though she'd information that they would certainly be there, them and several of their friends. Illya had taken a table for one, well within reach should anything untoward happen, though with this crowd that seemed highly unlikely.

She'd swept in on the arm of Napoleon Solo, both trying to outcharm the other. She'd seen the frown start to form on Edward's face when he spotted them, and waited for the moment when he'd tensed, just before he would have risen and come over. That was the moment when Mark made his move, dressed in a cross between a Dick Francis character and someone perhaps from a Damon Runyon play. Whoever he was supposed to be, it was obvious he was NOT from the same social scale as the Lowrys.

"Ei, and there you are, you cheating vixen, you. I've 'ad about enough of yer sneaking around with your fancy men, girl. You belong to me, lovie, 'ave for these last ten years, and don't you go forgettin it! I need to bring my knee-busters in just to teach your new 'friends' a lesson bout that, I'll just do that, and don't you go thinking otherwise, missy! You just listen to me . . ." 

April had jumped out of her chair, turned to face him, pure defiant fury in her face. Her voice, her words had started out the cool sophistication Edward knew her by, but by the third round of words exchanged, she'd quickly slid into the loud, shrill, profanity-laden dockside trull he'd coached her on being. 

"Bloody little upstart whore! Well, like they say, you can take the girl out of the Liverpool alley, but can't take the alley outta the girl, now can you, luv??!" 

Her snatching the glass of wine and throwing it at Mark, Mark bellowing at her, grabbing her wrist and hauling her out of the room, her screeching and hurling curses at him, had finished the scene. 

Napoleon Solo had backed away from the whole scene, as if hugely embarrassed. Well, he was hugely something, though amused was a much more accurate description than embarrassed. Luckily, when they'd briefed Mr. Waverly, the Head of UNCLE New York had found the whole idea rather amusing as well, and had given them his blessing; it seems a scene was acceptable under SOME circumstances. In fact, that older gentleman at the side table, the one watching with such dignified horror, looked oddly familiar. 

Now, Napoleon found himself, just as planned, right beside the Lowry table, where his low mutterings about how badly he'd been fooled, and what a lucky escape he'd had, had not gone unnoticed. Edward Lowry and his mother had shared a telling glance; it appeared they felt Edward and the Lowry family had had a rather lucky escape as well.

Later, at April's apartment, the four friends had shared a few laughs and companionable drink or two.

"Still, better pack a bag, April-luv, spend a few days at my flat, just in case. THINK he got the message, loud and clear, but best not to take any chances," Mark suggested.

Napoleon cleared his throat, "actually, that's a pretty good idea, April. Although I'd be glad to offer my flat . . ."

"And mine is always available, April. You might prefer that," Illya had murmured.

April took a good look around, and the tension of the night, the sheer exhilaration of what they'd done, got to her. And in that same dock-side accent, with all the mannerisms, she leaned into Mark heavily and told them, "ei, thanks, blokes, aint like I dont appreciate it and all, but oi'll stick with me partner 'ere." 

Napoleon and Illya cast a wry glance at each other, then raised their glasses in a salute to the two laughing together on the couch. 

"Well, have it your own way, April. I imagine the two of you can take proper care of each other; you're getting quite good at that," Napoleon remarked. 

Mark and April looked at each other and grinned, "yes, we are, aren't we?" April conceded. 

Mark added cheerfully, "well, that's what partners are for, you know."


	3. Stolen Moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All they had were moments, moments stolen out of time.

Lisa Rogers, cool, icy, personal secretary and confidential assistant to the head of UNCLE New York, stood back and surveyed the table. Yes, just right. Set for two, snowy linen cloth and napkins, fine china and silver, candle in the center waiting to be lit. The wine was breathing on the sideboard, while the elegant and refined meal waiting to be served. 

She took one final glance in the mirror. Yes, everything just right there too. A simple black dress, simple but showing off her figure quite well. One final touch to her hair, to smooth an errant strand back into place, and she was ready.

Now all there was to do was wait. Sometimes he showed up, sometimes he didn't and there was no way to anticipate which way it would be. There were so many things that could delay or even prevent him from coming. It had been this way for a very long time, since that first year they'd met. 

It wasn't often, of course - her birthday, the anniversary of his first visit to this apartment, if possible, plus the occasional time when life became just too overwhelming to be dealt with alone, or with someone who just wouldn't understand. And holidays, though with a special twist of their own.

The actual holidays were usually out of the question, of course, so they'd made their own compromise for each. One week before Christmas Eve, one week after New Year's Eve. She cooked a Thanksgiving Day meal for him the month before, the fourth Thursday in October, unless that interfered with Halloween for the young ones in his family or April Dancer's ridiculous Halloween party that she insisted on, in which case it was the week before THAT. Valentine's Day they celebrated on the 18th instead of the 14th. Complicated, and her calendar would have confused anyone looking at it, most certainly. Confusing, but something she was well accustomed to anymore. Of course, that did leave her free to spend those holidays with others, though rarely with the same one more than once. That was dangerous, far too risky, and Lisa Rogers was already playing a very risky game.

But this year, SHE was away, attending some conference or other. Oh, Lisa knew which conference; Lisa just didn't want to think about HER, not tonight. 

But still, she'd wondered whether he would show up; there had been that quick glance, the hurried, "oh, nothing in particular" when someone had asked his plans with HER being out of town. She didn't know, but she'd prepared just as if she did know for sure. Perhaps she would be repeating all this in four days time, but possibly not. After all, SHE was due back in town on the morning of the 18th, so he might be obliged to stay with her that night.

The doorbell rang, and her breath caught in her throat. Slowly she went to the door, pulled it open, let a slow smile of welcome come to her face. Her voice was low and breathy as she murmured her usual greeting.

"Hello, you're just in time."

And his customary smile, and nod, "thank you, my dear. You are looking especially lovely this evening."

And Alexander Waverly made his dignified way into the apartment, closing the world and his duties and responsibilities outside, if only for a few short hours.


End file.
